


Greg's Colours

by Marmosette



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Clothing Porn, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-19
Updated: 2012-02-19
Packaged: 2017-10-31 10:19:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/342916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marmosette/pseuds/Marmosette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg Lestrade finally admits that there's a point to dressing well, especially if you're the partner of Mycroft Holmes, and that he can't manage this on his own. Not to the level where he'd impress Mycroft. And who wouldn't want to do that? So he has to ask for some outside help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Greg's Colours

Greg Lestrade took his drink over to one side of the room, where there was a half-wall topped with a row of ferns, and leaned his elbow on the edge of the marble. He could still watch Mycroft Holmes working the room, but he didn’t feel under so much pressure to keep up. He’d been here for an hour and a half and had got through three brief conversations about how grateful people were for the work of the Met, and what was his title again, and that must be very depressing work. Thank you, Detective Inspector, no, actually, not when the prosecution was successful. And three gin-and-tonics. 

He didn’t really mind. He really didn’t. He’d been to so many required functions, represented the Met, been the face that got put in the paper, been interviewed, and smiled and nodded at so many witnesses and suspects and family members and politicians over the years that he had a whole portion of his brain devoted to running his face and voice whenever someone said, “So tell me...” It was automatic.

It was also very, very dull.

Tonight he was here as DI Lestrade from the Met, whose team had just arrested a pair of minor thugs who had mugged twelve people in Brockwell Park, and killed one old lady. He hadn’t even had to share credit with Sherlock, this time, although of course that was the first question he was asked, anyway. He was finding it more and more tiresome having to talk about Sherlock while never, ever mentioning Sherlock’s brother.

Not that he really wanted to share. He was perfectly happy, even secretly delighted that no one knew he had far stronger connections with a far more dangerous member of the Holmes family. Most people didn’t ever think about Sherlock as a human, who must have had parents and grandparents, possibly cousins, maybe siblings. He was so inhuman that no one even thought to ask. It was enough of a stretch to follow how his mind worked, how _he_ worked - what had he looked at, why, how he had come to his conclusions. It was flashy, showy, flamboyant stuff. Lestrade had amused himself for a while during some of the duller interviews, imagining how Sherlock would have answered the questions. If Sherlock had ever had the size of audience he’d have at a press conference, Greg could imagine him bringing things to a close by producing the murderer from his pocket, like a conjurer’s trick at a children’s party. He’d only allowed himself to smile at the thought later. It wasn’t actually very funny. It was far too plausible.

Besides, it was more fun to think about Mycroft. He found himself smiling again as he watched the tall man charming an older member of the Lords, with a young woman Lestrade chose to be charitable about and imagine was his niece. The woman was smiling, the Lord was gesturing to go with some hoary old anecdote, and Mycroft was laughing as though he had never heard it before. Greg saw Mycroft’s glass was half full, a wine glass with pale liquid in it. Greg had teased him the first time he’d seen this trick - “Champagne flute didn’t hold enough?” he’d asked, noting the bubbles.

“White wine with a quantity of sparkling water,” Mycroft had said quietly, taking a sip. “No one likes to speak to an obviously sober civil servant.”

Greg watched him excuse himself and pass another group, pausing to make a comment and laugh, shake a hand, wave, excuse himself again, and lower his eyes, this time walking without inviting interruption. He was dressed soberly for this drinks do, Greg was thinking, until he realised with a start that Mycroft was heading towards him.

“You really have no idea how to behave at these things, do you?” Mycroft said with a smile, slipping one hand into the pocket of his trousers, hiding his words behind his glass before taking a sip.

“I thought the rule was to stay until you’re bored to tears, pretend to be drunk, and fall into a cab.”

Mycroft’s smile widened briefly. “No, I was referring to your role rescuing me from the attentions of the crudest member of the House of Lords, still thinking Profumo and Stephen Milligan the height of hilarity.”

“God, that’s never what he had you laughing at!”

Mycroft glanced at him sharply, then snorted. “Of course not. Simply an example of the mindset. I wouldn’t dream of repeating a word he said. Nightmare, though, maybe...”

Greg breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t worry about anyone using their relationship against him or Mycroft. But he was still alert for anyone making the attempt, or trying to annoy Mycroft. Mostly because he didn’t want to have to arrest Mycroft for aggravated assault with a dangerous mind. 

“So I’m rescuing you now? I can suddenly become embarrassingly drunk, if you like,” he said, and tipped the rest of his drink down.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and tipped his head. “Yes, _do_ give me something else to explain to someone, you cheeky devil.”

Greg smiled slowly, and looked back across the crowd. “Well, who do you need to work on now?”

“I believe, as they say, that my work here is done.”

“Good news.” Greg looked around and found a table to leave his drink on. Mycroft set his own glass delicately beside it, still half-full. “Do you have to take your leave?”

Mycroft shook his head, raising his hand to the coat check. The woman nodded and had disappeared behind the racks before they even reached the window. Greg dug out his ticket, out of habit. He kept accepting the things, even though he’d never yet needed it when claiming a coat he’d left while arriving with Mycroft. He still needed to if he arrived alone, however. 

Returning to the counter, the attendant gave him his coat first - his usual brown mac, as he’d come straight from work. He was at least wearing a tie - it had been a day of compromises. It was always useless to wear any of his decent clothes to work. Even being a DI wasn’t enough protection to guarantee he wouldn’t have to visit a crime scene, and the paper overalls were all very well for preventing “contamination,” as Anderson insisted on calling it, but they didn’t stop anything wet and messy from contaminating _him._ He’d had a court appearance today, so had brought a semi-decent suit with him and changed, and Mycroft’s car had picked him up afterwards. He’d even felt good about how he’d looked when he got into the car, until he’d seen Mycroft.

He tried to study him objectively as they slid into their coats. Mycroft was a good few inches taller than he was, and while his hair had thinned a bit, at least it wasn’t the mass of grey that Greg’s was. It did have a tendency to curl, though Greg was probably the only person who really got to see that. And his face was, really, nothing striking all by itself. He could blend into a crowd if he felt it was necessary. Generally he felt no need to hide himself in any way. His posture alone tended to create a hole around him in any crowd, no staff anywhere ever considered being rude or short with him, and if there was ever a cab that refused a summons from a Holmes, Greg had never seen it. 

No, Greg had to admit, whatever it was Mycroft had, it was probably unlearnable. Charisma, charm, acting skill, and a towering, massive intelligence. Greg admired all of it, and appreciated it, he really did. He loved the man. But now and again, just quietly, he wished that Mycroft Holmes was capable of sometimes looking imperfect.

Today, for example, Mycroft was wearing a grey suit with blue pinstripes, a dove grey shirt,  a thin silk pocket square of navy blue just spilling over the edge of his breast pocket, showing a glimpse of a blue-and-cream geometric pattern. His tie was a brownish-grey and blue houndstooth, his shoes sleek black leather without a mark on them. As if that weren’t enough, he’d also chosen his slim-fitting dark blue overcoat with the black velvet collar, and the charcoal-grey fedora. There was a tiny bright red feather tucked into the band, which matched the lining of his coat - Lestrade suspected that touch had probably come from Anthea. And of course the cane-handled umbrella. 

Lestrade knew how some of it worked - the hat was an excellent prop, made him even taller. The blue of the overcoat, the suit lining, and the pocket square all worked together, as did the tie and the stripe of the suit. And the blue and grey really helped draw attention to his blue-grey eyes. He knew that a hand-tailored suit was always going to fit far better than his own off-the-peg options, but it still didn’t seem fair that this man should be so very good at turning heads when he had no interest in anyone else’s interest.

That thought should have cheered him up more than it did. He liked knowing that this fine, dapper man truly only cared about Greg, and he did revel in it. He just wished he could give Mycroft the same feeling of pride. He knew he wasn’t bad to look at; he just didn’t really know what to do with it.

As he followed Mycroft into the cab, he resolved to change this. He’d just had an idea how.

 

That was how he found himself a few days later, sitting in the cafe of Debenham’s with the landlady of Mycroft’s younger brother. He certainly wasn’t going to ask Donovan or any of the other women he worked with, and anyway Mrs Hudson seemed to have a little more nerve. He liked her hair, and she never seemed to be dressed the way most women her age might have, in dumpy, dull cardigans and woolly socks around her ankles. But really, it was Connie Prince that made him think of her.

“So you remember when those bombings happened?” he said, over the dregs of their tea.

“Ohh, yes. Sherlock was all over the place. Lucky for him the insurance covered the holes he put in my wall as well. Did he tell you about that? He actually shot my bloody wall!”

Lestrade smiled. “Yeah, I did hear about it.” Well, it hadn’t been Sherlock who told him, but still. “Do you remember when we were talking about Connie Prince? She’d just died?”

“I liked her. So much more sensible than these youngsters trying to redesign people now. She had some style, not just wanting to make sure you were showing enough skin. It’s horrible, some of the things they suggest.”

“Do you reckon you could do that?”

“What, dear?” She looked at him across her cup, then the penny dropped. “Ohh!” She set her cup down and reached for his hand. “Ohh, but you don’t want me, what about Sherlock? He dresses nicely. Well, when he bothers to get dressed. Or what about his brother? Now there’s a man who knows what looks good on him.”

“Actually, it’s because of his brother,” he told her, glancing down at their hands. “There is no way I am going to speak to Sherlock about this. And neither are you, right? Or I’ll tell him where you hid his skull.”

“He found that ages ago,” Mrs Hudson said, flapping her hand and sitting back again. “No, don’t worry about me. I won’t tell him. I know what he can be like - you think he’s bad at a crime scene, you should try having him as a lodger.”

“No thank you,” Lestrade said firmly. “So will you help me?”

“I’d love to, dear,” she said with a big smile, and he couldn’t stifle a sigh of relief.

 

Now he was following her through the men’s department. She seemed to be just looking over the racks, giving him a considering look now and then, and shaking her head. There was a lot of head shaking. He followed her, his hands tucked behind his back, trying to see any kind of pattern as to where she was pausing, what made her look up. He would have dismissed it as some kind of woman-shopping symptom, but knew there had to be something about it that Mycroft was good at, too. 

Finally he gave in and spoke up. “I mean, I know my size. I know when something doesn’t fit right. But it’s just this colour business. I mean, it’s not like I’m wearing makeup and have to match the colour of my eye shadow or anything. I just don’t understand how he does it.” He paused to look at a jumper that had made Mrs Hudson actually shudder - something cream with a pale argyle pattern on the front, obscured by a pile of hideous black fluffy cats. That was strange enough, but someone had then gone and sewn plastic eyes onto the cats. He pulled his hand away and moved on. 

“That’s just it, though, dear,” Mrs Hudson said, pulling another jumper off a rack and holding it up before him, shaking her head yet again. “It’s all to do with skin tone and colouring. Your eyes and hair, see? I mean, that silvery grey of yours is quite distinguished. I’ll bet they call you a silver fox quite a bit, don’t they?” She gave him an unsubtle, cheeky smile.

He ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I get the piss taken a bit. I blame it on Sherlock. Still, I mean, grey is neutral, isn’t it? Everything goes with grey. Black should work, shouldn’t it?” He held up a black cardigan with a lot of grey and white patterns across it. “What about this?”

Mrs Hudson turned, considered for a moment, then shook her head and turned away. “No, a lot of people think that black is simplest. But it’s not. I mean, you can wear it, you’re a winter, but not that one.”

“Don’t tell me it’s the wrong shade of black!” he said, hooking it back onto the rail.

“There are shades of black,” she said seriously, glancing at him for emphasis. “Oh yes. But no, that one’s just too busy. You don’t want that.”

He raised his eyebrows, but didn’t argue. He had asked her here for help, after all. “Okay, so what colours should I be looking for?”

She shrugged. “Black would do, or grey. Just nothing quite so busy. Something smoother. Sleek. You have a nice looking figure, you can do sleek.”

He grinned, not really knowing why compliments from someone who handed them out so easily should still feel like such an accomplishment. “Cheers. Right. How about this?” It was another argyle one, but it was a grey background he was sure was the same shade as his hair, the knit a finer texture than the cardigan, with black and dark purple diamonds across it.

“Oh, no, not that one,” she said, shaking her head quickly.

“Is it the purple?” he asked, looking at it again.

“No, the colours are fine. But the age doesn’t work.”

“The _age?”_

“You’ll look like a computer student or a granddad in that. It’s trying too hard.”

He frowned, his face crumpling. “Okay, I give up. I’ll shut up and stay out of the way, so long as you find something good.”

She held up an olive-green jumper with a shawl collar in front of him and tipped her head back and forth. “Well, it looks nice on you. Goes with your eyes.”

“Of course it does. Everything goes with brown,” he muttered, fingering one of the sleeves. “It’s like black.”

“Oh no, dear,” Mrs Hudson said again. “You’ve got such lovely brown eyes. Such a nice warm brown, too. Here, hold that one,” she said, thrusting the jumper at him and moving on. “That’s a good colour for you.”

“So...green?”

“Nothing bright,” she said firmly. “You should stay away from bright colours. Red would be just be all wrong for you. But nice soft colours, browns and greys, black too. And with your skin, I think you might even be able to wear white.”

He didn’t really see it. “Like that?” he asked, pointing at a V-necked cricket jumper as they passed. 

“Hmm, no, not really. Forget the white. It’s not really the time of year for it, anyway.” She paused, glancing around the store. “Here, it might help if you told me what the occasion was. Are you trying to impress someone in particular?”

“There isn’t really an occasion, so much. It’s Sherlock’s brother.”

Mrs Hudson whirled back to him, gasping, her hand in front of her mouth. “Oh!” She smiled with delight, reaching out to squeeze his arm. “Oh, I said, didn’t I? I said so!”

“Said what?”

“Oh, never mind that now.” She waved a hand at him. “But this is all wrong! We can’t look for anything for you here. That Mr. Holmes is far too posh for this place.” She took hold of his arm and turned him around. “Right. Out.”

 

And then they were in Selfridges. Greg had the one lone purchase from Debenham’s in a bag on his wrist, but his hands were back in his pockets as they stepped off the escalator. “Okay, so why here?”

“Well, I assume if you really wanted to go all out, you’d’ve gone to one of those tailors on Saville Row.” She lead him briskly past a barrage of mini-shops, down what seemed an endless hallway. It never seemed this long when he walked past outside. Maybe department stores were all bigger on the inside.

“But if I go there, they’ll pick it all out based on what they know he likes. See, that’s just it. I’m trying to figure this out myself.”

She slowed, and came to a stop. “Right. So let’s take a look at you.”

He looked around. Suits. Part of him wilted inside - _I’ll never look as good as he does in a suit, never -_ and part of him laughed. Obvious, really. 

 

What felt like minutes later, he was in front of far too many mirrors, and starting to feel hopeful. “Yeah. Yeah, this I can see,” he said. 

Mrs Hudson was sitting on a chair nearby, leaning forward with her hands pressed together in glee. “Oh, that _is_ a nice shade of brown for you,” she said, still cooing and gasping happily. 

The shop assistant was smiling as well. “May I ask what the occasion is?”

Greg hesitated, but Mrs Hudson didn’t. “New boyfriend,” she said quickly, giving the girl a nudge. “Very stylish man. Wants to impress him.”

The shop girl nodded, her smile slipping. Greg caught her eye in the mirror. “Nah, don’t worry. If it doesn’t work out, I’ll come back for you,” he grinned, and winked, and watched her blush.

“Did you want to see the blue again?” the assistant asked, flustered.

“No, I think we’re done here.” He turned to Mrs Hudson. “Both?”

“Both!” she agreed, nodding, and looking up at the girl. “Yes, please.” 

“I’ll go get them ready for you,” she said, and hurried off.

“What’d you go and tell her he was new for?” Greg asked, turning to take one last look in the mirror. Yes. If this didn’t catch Mycroft’s eye, he’d know it was intentional.

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Mrs Hudson said. “She’s young.”

“So you knew we were going out.”

“Almost from the start, dear. Well, from when Sherlock moved in, anyway.”

He shot her a look in the mirror. “You’ve got a good eye, Mrs Hudson. Don’t let Sherlock tell you differently.”

“I never listen to him anyway. Go and get changed now and we’ll ring this lot up.”

He went over to her and reached for her hand. “Thank you, Mrs Hudson. You have been a real help.”

She flapped her fingers at him. “Oh, go on with you. Go. Go on.”

He smiled and went on.

 

“Ah, Greg. I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

Greg reached for the remote and turned the television down. “Nope, no, just watching the match.”

“It’ll all end in tears,” Mycroft sighed.

Greg laughed. “Just because your lot lost doesn’t mean we all will. Sorry, was that tactless?”

“Entirely,” Mycroft said firmly. “Now, I know it’s short notice, but would you be willing to drag yourself out to dinner with me? I have to meet the ambassador this evening and he’s going to be bringing a bit of an entourage. A wife and daughter. They will no doubt be bored to tears, but he is convinced that he’s far more interesting than anything London’s stages might have to offer.”

“So you want me to talk to him while you take them out on the town, that it?” Greg teased, flipping the screen off and getting to his feet.

“If only that were possible. It’s only the Ritz, but would you mind?”

“I think I can manage that,” Greg said, smiling.

“Fine. I shall send the car.”

When Greg stepped out of the car, Mycroft was waiting on the pavement. He was leaning on his umbrella, one leg crossed behind the other, smiling as he recognized the car. Then the smile faltered as Greg straightened. 

“Something wrong?” Greg asked, going to meet him.

Mycroft shook his head, and for just an instant, Greg was sure his eyes were wide. “No, I...no. My. Thank you for joining me. You look wonderful.” He leaned into Greg’s kiss, touching his arm. then pulled back to look at him again, his head tipping, smiling. “This is quite a surprise.”

“Glad you like it,” Greg said, almost bowing at the praise. “Now, where’s this ambassador’s wife I’m supposed to charm?”

 

_Fin._  

_So very, very Fin._

_  
_


End file.
